


All That Glitters

by cranperryjuice



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Mining metaphors that never end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranperryjuice/pseuds/cranperryjuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Glitters

Dwarves were much like the immutable stone of their ancestral homes, and even as he lay bloody and dying, Thorin Oakenshield was no different. The jagged surface of his battle-ravaged skin hid away depths untold, a complex network of shafts and tunnels streaked with memories he had hoarded like so many precious gems since the start of their hopeless adventure.

The first treasure Thorin had buried deep within himself was the expression on Bilbo's face as he had listened to his song, sitting in a corner of his little hole with both dread and wonder in his eyes, hair like curls of candlelight-touched copper. Thorin's fingers had tripped over the strings of his golden harp and he had closed his eyes, driving the image deeper still into himself so that he may forget it.

There had been, however, no respite from the curious creature. He had muttered and fretted in his lilting Westron all the way to Rivendell, complaints about second breakfasts and rain and handkerchiefs, and each word had cut through the surrounding din of the company's conversations and clanged its way down Thorin's insides like a dropped pickaxe. How unfortunate for a burglar to be so conspicuous, so impossible to ignore.

They had lain hungry in Mirkwood, and the silent tears Bilbo had shed, thinking no one was looking, were sharp-edged diamonds that had rattled and caught inside Thorin with every step he took along the leaf-strewn paths. When the door to his cell had swung open in that damnable Elf's prison, the smoky-quartz glimmer of triumph in Bilbo's eyes had splintered into shards and wormed their way under his armor, worrying at his skin all the way to Lake-town. Thorin's Bane, they'd call him, the little hobbit who'd reduced their king to crumbling walls of too-thin rock. He was a shining, precious thing, meant to be kept away from the spreading shadows and scouring winds of the surface world. If only he had been born a Dwarf.

Thorin had dropped his fur cloak onto Bilbo's shoulders one cool night on the path to the Lonely Mountain, before the hobbit's turn to keep watch. Bilbo had cleared his throat and nodded primly in thanks, eyes darting to the rest of the company as they prepared their bedrolls. The shadows had slowly deepened and Thorin had lingered, committing to memory the reddened tips of his ears and the gentle smile that had finally curled his lips behind his tin mug of steaming tea.

"Do not look so pleased with yourself, Master thief," he had teased in a low voice.

"Why should I not? I seem to have stolen a thing of great value." Bilbo's eyes had glowed brighter than Sting in the night and pierced Thorin to his core. He had been burgled indeed, and not of his travel-worn cloak. The watch had been quiet that night, interrupted only by the brief clink of brass buttons against dwarven plate. Molten gold had trickled down Thorin's spine, and the distant shine of the Arkenstone had been dulled for one fleeting moment.

Thorin lay shaking among the screams of goblins and the clash of weapons and groped desperately through the memories that littered the winding halls of his mind, the only riches that would have mattered to a much wiser Dwarf than he. There would be no time to teach Bilbo the intricacies of Khuzdul, now, no time to carve a hobbit hole into the very walls of the Blue Mountains. Thorin could have chosen this folly over that of the dragon's hoard, and regret made his wounds sting bitterly as he was carried from the battlefield.

The sight of Bilbo, trembling and anguished as he stood in Gandalf's shadow at the entrance of the tent, was one Thorin hoped to forget upon reaching the halls of waiting. His apology felt hollow, insufficient, but Bilbo knelt at his side and took his hand. "I am glad that I have shared in your perils -- that has been more than any Baggins deserves."

There came a sad sigh from high above, and Gandalf turned his back to them.

"There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West," Thorin started. "Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure." He had to stop for a moment, then, and drew in a ragged breath. He had prepared his last words, had thought of them as he stood facing the advancing goblins. Bilbo, ever the burglar, stole them from his lips with a kiss that tasted of salt and iron.

Having no breath left with which to speak, Thorin thought instead of Bilbo's cheerful walking songs, of the amber beer and golden-crusted bread of the Shire, and closed his eyes.


End file.
